She pushes a bony protrusion, and a door blooms open. I find myself relieved to see something that reminds me of the world above.
Inside are two raised platforms, some folded woven blankets, and what’s likely a waste receptacle. I step inside and turn to ask if I can have a bath, but the door is already closing.
“No!” Das Muni says, and hurls herself at the door as it huffs closed.
I think of the workshops and skin and tendons outside and my stomach sinks. It may not be a cage of bone, but it is still a cage. This is what happens when you trust people. More the fool, me. I should have learned better from the Bhavajas and their sick cunning. This is a place where you eat or you are eaten.
Das Muni slumps in a corner.
I search the room, trying to get a better handle on it. There are no openings. One of the spidery water bulbs is affixed to a pillar at the far corner of the room, giving out heat and light. I contemplate breaking it open just to drink the water. If it’s really water.
Testing the various growths and protrusions from the wall turns up a water sluice, which spills water into a shallow, crescent-shaped bowl against the far wall. I drink my fill, disrobe, and wash. The water is cold, but the room is warm, and the floor eats the damp as I pour it over my neck and shoulders.
“You thirsty?” I ask Das Muni. As I turn, I see she has been watching me wash. She lowers her gaze. Nods.
I towel myself off with one of the blankets. It’s made of plant fibers. I still haven’t seen any plants. I rinse off my suit, which dries quickly and doesn’t soak up muck. When I dress now, the only things that still stink are my hair and Das Muni, but I can deal with that.
I pull at the blanket and rip off a long length of it. I twist it in my hands and test its strength. I remember what I did to those tongueless women. I am capable of great violence if pushed. Casamir and her people will soon see it.
Das Muni drinks from the basin and washes her face. Then we both sit and wait. I lie back on the bench, contemplating the play of the light on the fleshy ceiling. I play with the length of blanket, imagining wringing Casamir’s throat with it. I think this idea should make me happy, but it doesn’t. I want to believe the world is better than it is.
The door opens some time later. It’s not Casamir but the same two guards we saw at the door to the engineering room. “The conclave will see you now,” the tallest one says.
“Where’s Casamir?” I ask, stuffing my improvised garrote into my pocket.
“She’s there already,” her shorter, thinner companion says. She picks at her teeth.
I keep my hands out of my pockets as we’re led back out into the engineering room, which is now eerily empty. They take us up a set of tall, broad steps that lead into a massive theater. All of the engineers are here, sitting in the broad half-circle of the amphitheater. Six women reside at a broad table on the stage below. Casamir stands in front of them, gazing back at us as we enter. Her face is more serious than I’ve yet seen it. She looks even more frightened than when I threatened her in the recycling pits, but when I catch her eye, she gives a broad grin.
Our guards hustle us down the steps of the amphitheater and tell us to halt beside Casamir. Now I put my hand in my pocket, the one with the garrote, and I wait.
“Casamir tells us you speak Handavi,” a plump, wizened woman says from the center of the table. Her hair is arranged in a spiky crown. She wears a red woven tunic and blue apron. Her hands are stained in grease.
“If that’s what you call what we’re speaking, then yes,” I say.
Das Muni grumbles something.
“And you say you come from the top of the world,” the woman says.
“I do,” I say. “There is a war above, on the surface of the world, between us and another world like ours. It’s between the Bhavajas and the Katazyrnas. My sisters and I were recycled.”
There’s a murmur in the crowd behind me.
A skinny woman, closer to my age, points a bony finger at me and snorts. “This is clearly a case of delusion,” she says.
“There are other levels,” Casamir says. “We have seen many of them and met many different kinds of people. It may not be . . . so incredible. Perhaps this is just how her broken mind put together what happened to her.”
“None like she states,” the older woman says.
I finger the garrote and consider taking Casamir hostage and fighting my way out. It will get messy. I try a different tack. “You’re traders,” I say. “If you help me get back to my own level, I can open up a new trade route for you. We have all sorts of wonders,” I say. “Clothing that you can spray on, durable, like mine.” I smooth a hand over my sleeve. “We have sentient vehicles”—well, they won’t be going out into the vacuum, will they—“that can help you haul things. We have different kinds of foods and materials.” From the looks on their faces, they still aren’t convinced. I reach. “We have many different kinds of metals,” I lie, because the most metal I’ve ever seen on the first level was on Anat’s arm. “In browns and golds and grays. You can build a great many things with what we have to offer.”
That rouses the crowd. The women at the table confer with one another in their own language. The plump older woman leans forward. “And if you are mad?”
“If I’m just some mad person, then what have you lost in helping me?” I say. “Casamir is precocious. She is a thrill-seeker, trouble. What do you lose by letting her guide us if that is what you want? You’ll keep her busy and out of your hair. You lose nothing.”
Casamir raises her brows at me, but says nothing.
“How will we bind her to her word?” the skinny woman says. “If you are telling the truth, and you arrive back to this . . . level of yours, then what’s to keep you bound to your word?”
I shrug. “You’ll have to trust me.”
She snorts. “Trust? No. I say we bind her blood.”
More murmurs from the crowd. I look at Casamir.
“I’m not sure that’s necessary,” Casamir says.
“What is that?” I say.
“They cut out a piece of your flesh,” Casamir says, “and . . . make stuff out of it.”
“Like what?” I ask.
Casamir shakes her head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Well, I won’t have to,” I say. “I’ll keep my promise. If you can get me to the surface, I’m happy to trade with your people. But we need to get there.” I pause and meet the gaze of every woman on the stage. “Safely.”
They confer again. The crowd, too, shifts to low conversation, and I try to gauge the mood. Casamir doesn’t look at me. I tighten my grip on the garrote.